


A New Hope

by shutterbug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Bonding, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon Universe, During Canon, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Food, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Male Bonding, Male Friendship, Movie Night, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Star Wars References, Weirdness, guy's night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:23:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: Greg admits he's never seen Star Wars. Tom takes it upon himself to educate him.





	A New Hope

**Author's Note:**

> In my head, I wrote this thinking it's set in Season 2 at some point, but I think it would fit in any time after S1E6. 
> 
> A special shout-out to @soot-and-snide/@secret-squire, who could probably use a little happy pick-me-up right now. Love you. 
> 
> Also, thank you so much to anyone who reads and comments. I really, truly appreciate it.

After several attempts, Greg finally caught Tom’s attention as they speed-walked down the hall. “Hey, Tom? _Tom_? Hey. Yeah, can you not call me that?”

“What? My R2?” Tom smiled, chuckling, as if he couldn’t believe Greg had wasted his breath for _this_. “I’ll call you whatever the fuck I _want_ to call you, Greg. R2-D2. The Karate Kid. Old Man River.”

“Okay, well”--Greg scratched his temple--"that last one doesn’t really make sense, does it? Plus isn’t that kind of racist?”

“It makes sense if I _say_ it does! You don’t decide what makes sense, okay, Greg?”

“Well.” He spoke slowly. It was how he spoke these days, with hesitation and trepidation. Each word liable to set off an explosion in the verbal minefield that surrounded every person within the Roy family circle. He must--at all times--tread carefully. “It’s just that I…”

“ _What_?” Tom’s stride lengthened. His speed increased.

“It’s just that I’ve never actually seen…?”

Tom spared him a lightning-fast glance, raising his eyebrows.

“What I mean is that I’ve never actually seen… _Star Wars._ ”

Tom’s head snapped to face him, his eyes as wide as a supermoon. He held his arm out to stop him, almost _daring_ him to break through. “What, _any_ of them?”

Greg shook his head.

“Not even the shitty _new_ ones?”

“No?”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Greg?”

Greg breathed a wobbly laugh. “Uh. No.”

“Are you _fuck_ ing _kid_ ding me!?”

“Not--not that I know of?” He scanned the bullpen with fluttery, nervous eyes. The volume of Tom’s voice had caused a few heads to pop up over cubicle walls, brows lined with annoyance.

Tom suddenly became very serious and wrenched him toward his office by the elbow. “Come here.”

As Tom rounded the desk, Greg perched his ass on the edge of a seat opposite him.

“Look, Greg…” Tom paced, his reflection visible in the window behind him. Here--in his office--he assumed a more relaxed posture, more natural, less puffy-chested and straight-spined. He sat down and leaned back in his chair. “Shiv is away for a few days, and I think it’s time for me to become your Jedi Master and, you, my Padawan. So. Come over at seven.”

“Okay. Yeah. Sure.” He walked to the door, then: “Should I...I mean, should I eat before I come over, or…?”

Tom squinted at him as if he had antennae sprouting from his head. “This isn’t a fucking _date,_ Greg.”

“So…?”

“Jesus, _yes_ , eat before you come over.”

~~~

He picked up some tacos from a food truck when he left the office and ate as he walked to Tom’s place. As the elevator opened directly into Tom’s apartment, he realized salsa had splattered onto the toe of his shoe, and he frantically wiped at it with a used tissue he found in his pocket. He shoved the tissue back into his coat when Tom’s voice boomed, “My Padawan is here! Welcome, welcome, young apprentice!”

When Tom pointed at his feet, nerves squeezed his stomach; he expected Tom to comment on the slopped salsa. But Tom just _tsked_ at him and said, “Shoes off, Ani! Shoes off!”

Greg exhaled with relief as he deposited his shoes on the mat by the elevator. He chose to blow past the weird nickname and let Tom grasp his shoulders and steer him into the living room.  

Curtains had been pulled over the floor-to-ceiling windows and an enormous flat-screen played the _Star Wars_ movie menu on mute. Confusion landed on his head like a cartoon anvil when he scanned the coffee table and found it covered with plates of appetizers--by the look of them, professionally prepared. Brush strokes of vibrant color swept across dishes. Some bore little spots of sauce, artfully placed. Immaculate rolls of sushi lined crystal-clear, rectangular mirrors. Cured meats decorated a wood plank.

Before he had taken a full inventory, Tom sat down on the sofa and extended his arm to the cushion beside him. “Come on, sit. I won’t _bite_.”

He shuffled to the sofa and pointed to the food. “I thought you told me to eat before I came over.”

“Oh,” Tom said with a tone of false-surprise. “Yeah, I did. I did.” He paused to look him up and down. “Did you?”

“Yeah, I did.” He tried to calculate how close to Tom he should sit, then settled on the closest cushion, but at the far side of it. “But I wouldn’t have if I knew--”

“Great. Great.” Tom slapped his back. Then he stared at him. Greg shifted. “Well!” Tom threw his hands out at the spread of plates. “Help yourself! Get yourself a plate.”

“I would, but I’m pretty full.”

“Okay. Whatever you want, but this masterful example of 1970s American cinema starts in”--he looked at his watch--“five minutes, okay? So load up. Really. As much as you want.”

Tom leaped to his feet and disappeared down the hall--for a piss, presumably. He poured himself a Sprite and eyed the food. He identified a safe choice. A breaded item. It looked like oddly-shaped chicken. He threw a few onto a cocktail napkin and leaned back on the sofa.

When Tom returned, he smiled. “Ah, nice choice. Nice choice.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Greg replied with a smile of his own.

Tom’s smile broadened. “Do you know what that is?”

He picked up one piece, held it aloft, and studied it. “Is it...is it not chicken?”

“Eat it.”

Tom’s expression made him pause. He held the food in front of his mouth, suspicious.

“Go on. _Eat_ it.”

He swallowed the saliva that had pooled around his bottom teeth, then popped the food in his mouth, bit down, and chewed.

“That-a-boy!” Tom shouted, laughing.

It was _not_ chicken. It was… “Gamey,” he mumbled. “Should it be rubbery? Like this?” He couldn’t say he was a fan of this particular appetizer, but kept it in his mouth--despite every impulse to spit it out--and swallowed it.

“What you have there are bull testicles. So yes. Quite gamey.”

With instantly-wide eyes, Greg slapped his hand over his mouth and stared at Tom. “Oh, my God. Really?”

“Really.” Tom slapped his shoulder, nearly knocking the rest of the food out of his hand. “God, you’re such a brave little badass. You just went _right_ for the balls. You went nuts for the nuts.” Tom's giddy laughter danced around the living room.

Greg put his napkin on the end table and tried not to hurl. His Sprite lasted less than two minutes, and he poured himself another.

“But hey! Hey! It’s time! That magical time!” Tom reached for the remote. “Time for the most classic science-fiction movie of all time! What do you say?”

“Yeah, great.” Greg nodded, eager to redirect Tom’s attention. “Let’s do it.”

Tom talked the whole time.  

"Okay, make sure you read all this," he said at the start, pointing at the scrolling words. "Let me know if you need me to pause it."

Sometimes Tom chuckled and mimicked the action onscreen. "These are not the droids you're looking for," he imitated, waving his hand. "Don't you just want to use that at the office? These are not the budgets you're looking for. Right?"

Or: "Oh, if you think she's hot in _this_ one, just wait until the third one."

Periodically, Tom smacked his arm and nodded to the _beeping, blooping_ robot. "There you are, buddy! My little R2! It's _you_! Aren't you _cute_?"

Greg nodded every time.

When the credits rolled, Tom turned down the volume and turned to him. “So! I’m thinking, for _next_ week--”

"Oh, is Shiv gone again next week, too?" Greg interjected, a little surprised.

Tom was quick to cover the crestfallen expression that flashed across his face. He masked the disappointment in his voice with less success. "Yeah.” He picked at his fingernails and dropped his gaze. “Yeah, she's away a lot."

Tom forced a smile.

Greg did, too.

“But anyway!" Tom slapped his knees and stood up. " _The_ _Empire Strikes Back_ next week?"

"Oh. It strikes back? Sounds formidable."

For the first time that day, he solicited a genuine smile from Tom not borne of mockery or schadenfreude.

"Oh, it is! It is!” Tom bounced on the balls of his feet as he laughed. “It's a good one! Some even say the _best_ one!"

Greg bobbed his head and stood, skirting around Tom and making his way toward the elevator. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t miss the best one. Hey, and then there’s the bikini one!”

“Right! Yes! That’s right! You remembered!” Tom pointed at him, pride in his voice as he followed him. 

“Cool, well, yeah,” Greg said, donning his shoes and calling the elevator. “Yeah, count me in.”

“Yeah?" Tom's voice rose an octave. It occurred to Greg that Tom was relieved. Grateful, even. “That’s great.”

“Thanks, Tom,” he said, boarding the elevator.

“Hey, Greg?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"You, uh…You don't have to eat before you come over next time, okay? Really. My treat. I’ll get pizza."

But before he could reply, the elevator doors closed and, with a new hope for a real friendship in his chest, he sank down to the first floor.


End file.
